


nothing's gonna take you from my side

by giuthehuman



Category: Formula E RPF
Genre: Car Accidents, Just to be safe, M/M, Nightmares, Not Really Character Death, Panic Attacks, Pre-Slash, take the italics away from me please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-30 02:37:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18306482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giuthehuman/pseuds/giuthehuman
Summary: Jean-Éric wakes up with a jolt, cold sweat dampening his bedsheets and hands shaking like leaves.





	nothing's gonna take you from my side

**Author's Note:**

> me: oh i have to finish that other fic i started posting  
> also me: *starts other 29 projects*
> 
> hello hello hello! good to see ya!  
> this is kinda based on a dream i had recently and was written like... super quick. so i don't promise anything
> 
> sorry if the panic attack description isn't that good, i had a bit of a hard time putting what i was imagining into words here. also, it's my very first jeandré and i don't really think they're ic? but yeah i had to post it anyway
> 
> special thanks to duda (again!) for helping me out with this one. love ya!! <3
> 
> {title is from nothing's gonna hurt you baby by cigarettes after sex}

Jean-Éric wakes up with a jolt, cold sweat dampening his bedsheets and hands shaking like leaves. He almost drops his phone onto the wooden floor as he grabs it from the nightstand — he can’t even unlock it with his fingerprint from the sweat on his hands. He desperately types in his password, going straight for contacts and _his_ number.

He feels like he’s deep-diving and running out of air. The atmosphere around him doesn’t seem real; the air is heavy and his vision is blurred by remnants of sleep. The person on the other side of the line picks up.

“Jev?” André’s voice is still rough, the sound of it comforting, but not enough. “It’s like, three in the morning. Are you alright?”

Jean-Éric doesn’t reply. He stays quiet on line for a moment, trying to recompose himself, but as he opens his mouth to speak a sob escapes him.

“Jev?”, André says again, now sounding more awake. “What happened?”

He can’t get any words out — he hiccups, tears now streaming down his face. He’s panting and his hands are so sweaty he can barely hold his phone against his ear.

“I’m coming over,” André decides. He hears faint rustling from the other side, as if André is getting up from the bed. “Stay in your room. I’ll be there in five.”

André hangs up and Jev drops his phone. It gets lost between the rumpled sheets. He pulls his knees up, hugging his legs. He tries to remember the breathing exercises his physio has taught him, but the only thing on his mind is the scene from the dream — the headlines, _Racing Driver André Lotterer Found Dead_ stamped on every single newspaper; pictures of what had once been a car, André’s Porsche, and now were a mash of metal and leather seats. His heart is hammering inside his ribcage and his stomach churns. He hasn’t had an attack in years. He knows André is alive and well (he was just on the phone with him!), but his sleep-foggy, panicked brain refuses to acknowledge it.

It doesn’t seem to take full five minutes until André knocks on his door. His legs almost falter under him and he stumbles to open it so André can come in. The light from the corridor blinds him for a few seconds, as the room was bathed in darkness.

“Jev.” André’s voice is so, so soft. Jean-Éric is carefully embraced as they enter the room, André kicking the door closed behind him. “I’m here now.”

Being able to _feel_ André, not just hear him, to actually be enveloped in warmth and the slight scent of his cedarwood aftershave does a better job in comforting him. André sits down on the bed, pulling Jev along. Jev hides his face into André’s neck, sobs now reduced to soft sniffles. The room is too dark for André to see how he looks right now, but he’s still insecure about it.

André runs a hand over his buzzcut — it’s just that bit longer, enough for it not to feel as prickly as it used to. He lightly scratches his scalp, more with the tips of his fingers than with his short nails. It’s good, his breath is synching with André’s and he doesn’t feel as light-headed. 

He eventually stops sniffling altogether, taking deep breaths and inhaling André in. He’s thankful André doesn’t push him to talk about it and seems to understand that he needs a moment to pull himself together. What he doesn’t know, though, is how André could simply guess this is the way he responds best to when going through a panic attack, for he hadn’t had one since way before they met each other as teammates.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice hoarse from disuse and from crying. “So much.”

“It’s the least I could do.” André kisses his temple, the gesture oddly comforting.

They stay in a comfortable silence for a while — could be seconds, minutes, _hours_ even. André is still running his fingers through his hair (or lack thereof) and Jev almost falls asleep in his arms, but decides to break the hug to look at him.

Now used to the darkness, he can make out the faint lines of André’s face. His hair is disheveled from sleep and he’s wearing a soft, worn-looking shirt and sweatpants. Jean-Éric feels underdressed and exposed in only his boxers, but André doesn’t seem to mind.

“I had a nightmare.”

“You don’t have to tell me.” André brushes his knuckles on the side of his face, making him lean into the touch almost like a cat.

“I want to,” Jev insisted. “You had died. In a car crash, but not at a race. It looked so real.”

He sees André’s mouth opening, Jev won’t mind if André says something even if it’s a joke about how _you won’t get rid of me that easily_ , but he appreciates the sensible silence he’s met with instead.

“Go wash your face,” André says, standing up. “I’ll get you a glass of water.”

Jean-Éric almost _whines_ at the loss of contact, but assumes it’s because he’s still shaken from earlier. He goes to the bathroom nonetheless, turning the lights on and seeing his red-rimmed, puffy eyes and tired expression. He sighs and washes his face with only water and it actually helps, even if it’s just a little bit, to make him feel more human again.

When he returns, he sees that André turned the bedside lamp on and left a glass full of water for him. He is sitting on the bed, back resting against the headboard. He looks as if he’s about to fall asleep, Jev notices, and only then realises how late it must be.

He grabs the glass and sits beside André to drink the water ( _slowly_ , André reminds him). It feels good to have someone caring for him like this — not just _being there_ , but actively helping, trying to make him feel better. He’s not quite well yet, but he’ll be soon. When he’s done drinking, he puts the glass back on the bedside table. He’s about to stand up so he can get around the bed and lie down, but André moves to the side before he can do so.

Jean-Éric lies down beside him, frowning when he feels something poke his ribs. He grabs it, his phone, but before he can even unlock it to check the hour André takes it from his hand and sets it on the other bedside table, the one far from him.

“No phones,” he says. “Try to get some sleep, okay? We have shakedown tomorrow.”

Jev nods and closes his eyes, the exhaustion finally taking place in his body. He feels André pulling him closer and making him lay his head on his chest. André’s steady heartbeat lulls him to an almost-asleep state.

“I’m here for you, alright?”, André whispers. Jev can barely hear it when he adds “I love you” right before he succumbs into a dreamless sleep.


End file.
